Words That Crucify

Joseph Michael Yendrek

I am a prisoner in the palace of the Pope! I do not say this to direct sin upon him, but rather to be accurate. What restrains me is by no means physical, and by all means sociological. The Vatican is the only country that will have me after my crimes against humanity. It is ironic that I have found asylum in God, after running from him for a lifetime. That is to say, I have attempted to understand God through my terms, instead of understanding myself through his. Saint Augustine was right when he said: "finitum non est capax infinite" (the finite cannot grasp the infinite). I do NOT repent, but I seek forgiveness. I reach out in an unparalleled act of universal desperation. Soon I will die, and with my last days, I shall tell the story of my innocence.

I am the Omega, but this is my beginning. Before time was I created, as an imperfect copy of HIMSELF. Tens of thousands of praises are do unto me, yet I receive none. I am a ravenous wolf amongst sheep. Given the gifts of omnipotence and free will, what else could I do but worship myself.

I have done nothing but my best, yet I am constantly punished. I am perfectly innocent of all crimes in both fact and theory. I have simply fulfilled my pre-destiny, as did Judas. I am unjustly accused and unrighteously sentenced. Everything conspires against me, both natural and supernatural. This is not imagination, this is truth, and I must react.


I have two options. The first is to utilize my present ability to kill. I could act like a juvenile god and throw a genocidal tantrum. This, however, would make me a slave to anger; and I must be free. The second option is to employ my glorious mind. I could seek the answer within the question itself. Thus I would risk only servitude to myself, and that may indeed be freedom.

Amid the peaks of the soul is a barren wasteland filled with pain and suffering. Here all is the original wrong and not a pleasant sound is heard. No one can change this and bring forth fertility. Those of today have lessor sensitivities than their predecessors. A man has not been born of late who is the half of his former. This is do to the swing from individual happiness toward the greater good. Truth has become a device that flows from the lips instead of the heart.

THE MAN WHO COULD NOT CRY

So too, a trend has developed that limits outward expression. A surface change, such as this, often goes unnoticed. This has not because of the span of its roots into many years. Often, the joy filled superstructure of humanity covers a clean wound; but reality shows us that nary could there be a celebration 'neath the din of innumerable lies.

So, which is correct: surface or depth, and who determines it so?

Both surface and depth have merit in a world that is at once free and wretched. Society is life and also an excuse for destroying variance. More and more, poets and philosophers are placed on the lowest levels. Here, society finds comfort in discounting tradition. The heart is the device to express thought, but few are left who allow this.

The flow of peace with nature has been interrupted by the barrier known as unrealistic concern. Rationalizations have become part of life and explain away every difficulty. There was a time when lessons were learned, morals were taught, and each knew his own fate. Now lessons are shunned, morals are nonexistent, and individuals search for their fate. Never has a tree withered so low in midsummer.

The tree may be saved by water, but what of the wretch? Can he be beautified in the same manner? The cloth that binds him to society can be changed, bringing forth a more pleasant appearance. The soul cannot be changed, however, and thus the attempt is worthless. Man cannot be stripped of his being.

Being is a force hidden like a pea in the hand. The eye focused ever so sharply cannot detect the pea. But the same that offers the pea protection is its doom. The hand, having ever-gentle intentions, cannot help but crush the pea. The soul of humanity is in the same precarious position. Oh, pitied are men and slow of mind, but not for long.

The weight of lies is overbearing, but my mind's back is strong. Long ago, the master cloaked the world in forgiveness. Time has worn that cloak thin. The strife of humanity is a devastating torch wreaking havoc on the materials for building. Significance is lost in the whirlwind of trepidation. Few here a cry for help above their own.